Suspicious Minds
by Auntie Lib
Summary: There had to have been little clues over the last year and a half that Grissom and Sara are more than just friends. How would the other team members react to those clues? GSR from outside perspectives.
1. Greg

**Disclaimer: I didn't create CSI. I don't own CSI. I have not profited in any way from CSI.**

A/N: This is actually the first "CSI" fan fic I've ever written, just not the first I've posted. Before the events of the last few episodes of season 7, I've always thought the rest of the team kinda, sorta suspected the GSR. This is how they might've found out (if they had). I'm hoping to add chapters for each of the main characters.

Suspicious Minds:

GREG

A tiny fragment of night sky was all Greg Sanders could see from his uncomfortable position in the backseat of the SUV. With his back and left shoulder propped against the driver's side door, he had to tilt his head backward and up to see anything at all. What he **could **see took his breath away. Black as ink and loaded with stars he never noticed living and working so close to the gaudy Las Vegas lights, the strip of starry sky visible out the window only served to remind him that he was but a tiny speck among billions of other tiny specks on this planet he called home.

He was tired. So tired the backs of his eyelids felt like sandpaper. _Probably better not to keep opening and closing them_, he thought. _Open or closed, pick one. Okay, I'll keep 'em closed. There, that was easy_. He and Grissom and Sara had spent the better part of the last twelve hours out on Highway 93, piecing together the last moments of a family of three from Phoenix, Arizona. Visiting Las Vegas to celebrate their son's 21st birthday, Rich and Caroline Newmark had made a side-trip to Hoover Dam, misjudged a turn, and ended up plowing through the guardrail and down a steep embankment, taking two other cars with them along the way. Three dead, four injured, and nothing more to blame it on than sleep deprivation and too much coffee.

Damned if life wasn't just randomly stupid sometimes.

His neck and shoulder beginning to ache, Greg shifted his legs restlessly, being careful not to touch the back of the front passenger seat, where Sara was dozing. There had been nothing but silence from the front for the last few minutes or so and Greg was hoping to keep it that way. He was entirely too lanky for the backseat and Sara had begun to whine about what she called the "assault" on her seatback. He had already been told to "knock it off!" twice now. Once more and he was convinced she'd wake up, climb into the backseat and attempt to beat the crap out of him. There was barely enough room for **him** back there much less her, but he was certain she'd find a way. Sara Sidle was nothing if not determined. For someone who claimed not to need much sleep, she became very cranky when she didn't get any at all. For his part, Grissom (who was driving) had passed the time listening to a country music station and humming occasionally.

Greg hated country music. (He hated Grissom's humming even more.)

The door's hard plastic armrest wasn't any good as a place to rest a weary head and he debated giving up the attempt to sleep. He couldn't sleep in a moving vehicle, anyway. Planes, trains and automobiles, he had never been able to nod off in any of them. His mother claimed he'd slept like... well... like a baby, strapped securely in his seat as an infant. He seriously doubted that. What he remembered were long road trips with his mom and dad and he didn't remember sleeping through a single mile of any of them.

He was good at pretending, though. He had learned early on that other people had little patience for his incessant questions. Road games like I Spy and Spot The License Plate got really old really fast. And, sometimes, his parents just wanted to listen to music or talk quietly, with no interference from the back seat, so he would lie back, close his eyes, and dream the miles away. His fantasy life was rich, even as a young child, and he could go for hours like that. With his eyes closed, young Greg would sometimes pretend he was invisible. (Would anyone notice if he were?) Now, adult Greg considered it a form of meditation. After the day (and a half) the three of them had put in, it would be almost as good as sleep.

If only he could get comfortable.

With Grissom behind the wheel, the drive back had been relatively smooth. They never let Greg drive, even before the . . . incident. After his run-in with Demetrius James, he was happy to be a passenger and let somebody else have the responsibility of guiding the large vehicle safely to and from crime scenes.

They had established a routine: Grissom always drove. (Greg suspected it had something to do with Grissom being a control freak.) Sara rode shotgun. She got carsick and needed to sit in front. Or so she claimed. Greg thought it more likely the fact that he was still The New Kid and needed to be kept in his place.

"Are you all right back there, Greg?" Grissom asked, sounding faintly irritated.

"Fine."

"I'm glad to hear it. Could you stop squirming around and bumping the back of my seat, then? You're beginning to annoy me and we both know what happens when you annoy me, don't we."

"Yes, we do." Grissom was not – often – a petty man but something about Greg brought out the despot in him sometimes. He knew it. Greg knew it. It wasn't something that worried Greg too much, but punishment for getting on Grissom's nerves usually involved disgusting chores best avoided at all costs.

"I don't want you to wake Sara," Grissom continued. "We have a good thirty minutes until we get back to the lab and she needs sleep. So do you," he added, as an afterthought.

"Don't worry. I'm good now."

Grabbing several jackets from the back, Greg bunched them into a vague pillow-like shape, wedged them between his head and the door and closed his eyes. Much better. The intimate dark of the Denali's interior and the steady hum of the tires on asphalt soon had him relaxed again. His breathing slowed, evened out. He was entering what he thought of as his "auto Zen state." Not asleep, but not entirely awake.

It looked like sleep to others, though, and kept him out of trouble and that was all that mattered.

Five minutes later (or it could've been fifteen – he lost track of time in his Zen state) a particularly violent bump in the road forced his eyes open again. He was careful not to move or alter his breathing, in case Sara was now awake and looking around for the cause of the jolt. In the front seat, she mumbled something inaudible and shifted slightly but didn't awaken. From his vantage point in the back, Greg could just make out her lower thigh and bent knee, now resting on the console between the two seats.

_It's a really nice thigh_, Greg thought. _Muscular. Long, long legs_. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine those legs - _No. Don't even go there_, he cautioned himself. He had long ago given up thinking about her in that way. She clearly didn't think of **him** as anything more than an adorable (if he did say so himself) kid brother/protégé.

And, anyway, he had begun to suspect that she had someone she **did** think of "in that way."

He couldn't point to anything definitive but she seemed different somehow, ever since what they had all come to think of as "Nick's Ordeal." Maybe it was just a matter of tragedy making her re-align her priorities, but he didn't think so. His personal reevaluation hadn't resulted in the glow that now seemed to precede Sara wherever she went. (At least he hoped not. That would just be freaky.)

No, the changes in Sara were subtle but profound. In the past, she had often seemed to Greg a little bit lost and unsettled. She gave the impression of being all alone, even surrounded by other people. He sometimes wondered if that wasn't a large part of her attraction for him, this need he had to make her smile. Now, the loneliness was gone. She was more relaxed. She went through her days with an air of... he wasn't even sure he could put a name to it. Settled, maybe. Rooted. _No_, he thought. _That wasn't it_. It was that she seemed more at peace with herself and it showed in the way she dressed, wore her hair, did her make-up, dealt with the often depressing work they did.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time she had pulled a triple. She had even declined to work the past two Christmases in a row. Added up, the little signs all pointed to a Significant Other she was unwilling to talk about or share with the class.

Sara shifted again, thumping her knee harder this time and Greg watched as a hand reached out from the driver's seat, resting firmly on the inside of her thigh. He watched as Grissom glanced over his shoulder at the backseat and, seemingly reassured by the silence there, glanced over at Sara. Noting her restlessness, he lightly rubbed his fingers up and down her inner thigh. The motion was oddly sensual and Sara began to calm almost immediately.

_Hmmm. That's interesting_, Greg thought. He kept his breathing deep and even as he watched Grissom's hand, now beginning to stroke Sara's arm where it rested on her thigh. Tenderly he stroked down her arm from elbow to wrist, (gentle tracing of fingers) wrist to palm, (light, ever so delicately so as not to disturb her) along her palm to her fingers. Grissom's big hand seemed to defy gravity as it made its way almost imperceptibly from elbow to fingertips and back again.

Sara sighed and turned more fully onto her left side until she was facing Grissom, arm stretched out between the seats. Grissom gently gripped her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, and rested their linked hands on her knee. Assured that she was calm once again, he returned his full attention to the road and peered into the darkness ahead.

_So_, thought Greg. _It's like that._ Suddenly, all of the bits and pieces which had pointed (not unlike neon, if he was honest with himself) toward a more relaxed, contented Sara, and a Grissom more patient with his underlings, clicked silently into place.

He spent about a second feeling foolish for having missed all the signs, another two seconds feeling faintly jealous, and ended with an almost overwhelming feeling of gladness. If being with Gil Grissom was the reason Sara no longer seemed so alone, he was all for it. And if being with Sara was the reason Grissom no longer haunted the halls of the crime lab, took better care of himself, and cut Greg a break now and then, who was he to complain?

The fact that, of all of them, it was anti-social Grissom and misfit Sara who were regularly getting laid gave him a moment's pause, but he quickly decided he was big enough to overlook it. He wasn't without prospects, his own self.

Closing his eyes, Greg imagined he could still see the clasped hands of the couple in the front seat and, like a child watching Mommy and Daddy embrace, felt that same child-like warmth spread outward from his chest. He was definitely big enough to be outrageously happy for them. For her.

Smiling ever so slightly and burrowing his face into his makeshift pillow, Greg, for the first time in his memory, drifted off to sleep in the back seat, determined to closely guard his new secret knowledge. (Unless somebody offered him money. In that case, all bets were off...)

The End


	2. Nick

**Disclaimer: I didn't create CSI. I don't own CSI. I have not profited in any way from CSI. (Except emotionally; it makes me happy.)**

A/N: Before the events of the last few episodes of season 7, I've always thought the rest of the team kinda, sorta suspected the GSR. They had to have seen things, picked up subtle clues here and there. This is how each of the different team members might have reacted to those clues they picked up along the way.

Suspicious Minds:

NICK

Nick Stokes peered into the dim Las Vegas Police Department garage with disgust. He had been told there was a Cadillac Escalade there waiting for processing and he had hurried over to the garage, genuinely excited at the prospect. It wasn't every day you got to dismantle an Escalade. He had been so looking forward to it.

But this. . . was not what he had expected.

_What a damn shame_, he thought. The Caddy's registered owner was one Pinky Crenshaw, gang thug and Drug Kingpin wannabe. His given name was Douglas, but he had a fondness for all things pink: pink shirts, pink hats, pink stationery . . . pink Cadillac.

Nick flipped a switch, lighting the garage's interior to near-daylight brilliance. _That so doesn't help_. Some things were not meant to be painted pink, and a Cadillac Escalade was definitely one of them, in Nick's estimation. It wouldn't interfere with processing the thing but it hurt his eyes and offended his sensibilities, making him reluctant to approach the car, much less take it apart.

Dismantle it they must, though, and search every inch. Pinky Crenshaw had been stopped for a routine traffic violation on North Tropicana during the night. Making a U-turn in the middle of traffic was a sure way to a ticket in Las Vegas, but Pinky thought himself above such things as rules of the road. His pink Escalade went where he wanted it to go when he wanted it to go there, and everybody else just better stay the hell out of his way. The officers who stopped him had him step out onto the sidewalk while they scanned his driver's license. The pink car and clothing had given them their first clues as to his possible identity, but one couldn't be too careful.

Since they had detained a suspected drug dealer who had acted "jumpy" (**thei**r story) they felt they had probable cause to hold Pinky temporarily and call for drug-sniffing dogs. And backup. Lots of backup. (Pinky had a little bit of a rep with the LVPD. He had once broken a female rookie's nose when she attempted to shoo him out of the way during a raid on one of his suspected drug labs. They were careful whenever they encountered him but also aware - very aware - that wherever Pinky went, trouble followed.) The dogs had swarmed all over the Cadillac, howling and barking excitedly, but they had been unable to pinpoint the source of the smell. The cops had looked, superficially, but had found nothing.

Now it was up to the Las Vegas Crime Lab to find the drugs the arresting officers were certain must be hidden somewhere in the SUV. While they had never been able to legally connect Pinky to any of the drugs he supposedly bought and sold, he was a bad-tempered, violent son of a bitch and they wanted him off the streets in the worst way. They were also tired of watching him walk away from them one too many times, followed by his smarmy, seedy lawyer. (The lawyer was smart, though. Very smart. They'd give him that. He dressed like he didn't have a pot to piss in but drove around in a dirty gray - brand new - BMW. And he always managed to find some loophole through which Pinky was able to slip out of police custody. Pinky had not spent more than four hours in a jail cell. If the cops hated bad lawyers, they hated good lawyers even more.)

Nick ventured closer to the Escalade. Close up, the paint job was even more hideous. What had at first been a dim pink nightmare was now a **bright** pink nightmare and Nick regretted turning on the lights.

Sara, who had slipped into the garage behind him said sadly, "This is wrong on so many levels."

"Tell me about it," replied Nick. He regarded Sara fondly and asked, "So where do you want to start?"

"Drugs generally don't travel well in the engine compartment, so how about we work from the inside out?"

"Done."

They each approached a rear side door, Nick on the right and Sara on the left, and opened them simultaneously. "Oh, my god," moaned Sara. The vehicle's interior was even worse than its exterior. Every visible surface was pink, including the dashboard and head liner. The seats were covered in pink leather and the floors in what looked like pink sheepskin.

"Who the hell dyes perfectly good sheepskin like that?" Nick wondered. "I grew up on a ranch and, let me tell you, that is just not natural."

"I think that's the point," Sara replied, equally repulsed. There was something almost . . . alive about the car's interior. She felt as if she was about to slip into a giant body cavity, all smooth and blood-infused like living tissue. She was going to have nightmares about this one, she was sure of it.

Shaking off the discomfort, each started dismantling the side doors, opening up and searching behind the plastic and leather moldings. They unbolted the seats, removed the upholstery, and found nothing but foam stuffing. They ripped up the pink carpet and checked for compartments in the floorboards. Nothing. They moved to the front and repeated the process, removing the seats, the dashboard cover, the compartment between the seats, the carpet, checking the floorboards. Zip. They lifted the head liner and, again, found zilch.

"This is getting ridiculous," Nick complained. It had taken them nearly four hours to dismantle the SUV's interior and their efforts had gotten them nothing but a blinding pink headache. "Pinky Crenshaw is not that smart."

"I think he confiscated the car from a mobster who owed him a favor," Sara reminded him. "Those guys know how to hide stuff. You know, nobody ever found Jimmy Hoffa."

Nick stretched his aching shoulders, pulled his gloves more tightly around his fingers and moved over to the workbench, snagging a dolly with his foot. "Time for the really fun stuff."

Sara grabbed her own dolly and lay down, rolling to join Nick underneath the huge SUV. "It's roomy under here," she remarked conversationally, as they both scanned the undercarriage. There was room for both of them to lie down side-by-side, with room to spare.

"Clean, too," said Nick. "Pinky takes good care of his stuff, I'll give him that." He grimaced as he remembered all the pink. "Too bad the same can't be said about his taste."

At first glance, they could see nothing unusual about the underside of the SUV. Everything was in place, just as it should be. As Nick shone his light above their heads, they scanned front to back, side to side. Suddenly, Sara grabbed Nick's arm and pointed up toward the car's front end. "There," she said excitedly. "Up there in back of the front axle. Does that weld look strange to you?"

The beam from the flashlight settled on a section of the undercarriage just behind the axle and to the side of the right front wheel well. "Yeah," he said. "It sure does."

They both scooted up nearer the front tires to examine the section of metal more closely. "Hand me those needle nose pliers, would you?" Sara asked. Nick reached out to the tool box lying open on the ground and grabbed the pliers, handing them over. "I think if I just stick these in right . . . here . . ."

"Careful, there, darlin'," Nick cautioned. "Who knows what this thing's carrying."

"Right." Sara carefully dug the pliers around what looked like a large square seam in the otherwise smooth black surface. On the end was a gap in the metal that Sara was able to stick the pointed pliers into. Searching, Nick found another gap on his side. Grabbing another pair of pliers, he reached in, mirroring Sara's grip on the gap's edge. Together, they tilted the pliers in and, at the same time, pulled down.

With a metallic snap, the "box" popped free and dropped down onto Nick's mid-section, eliciting a startled "Ooof," before he could brace himself.

"Better you than me," Sara laughed, ignoring his indignant look in her direction. She grabbed her camera and started snapping pictures of the box and the matching hole it had left behind in the Escalade.

"But you have natural padding, you know, on your woman parts, just for situations like this," he whined.

"Careful there, Nicky," came Grissom's voice from somewhere above and to the right of their position under the SUV. "Comments like that can be construed as sexual harassment."

Sara rolled swiftly out from under the end of the SUV and stood up, coming face to face with Grissom, who was standing near the SUV's back bumper. Nick had a little more difficulty, since a large box was resting on his stomach, but he eventually rolled out and sat up, looking down at the metal container in his lap and trying not to touch it any more than he had to.

"You found something." Grissom said, moving to squat beside Nick.

"Yes, I think we did. I'm pretty sure this isn't standard equipment on any Cadillac I've ever seen," Nick replied. He stood up carefully and placed the box on the workbench. It didn't appear to be locked in any way but an opening wasn't immediately obvious.

Grissom stood up and joined Nick and Sara at the workbench. "Let's print this thing first, and then see what's inside," he suggested simply. While Sara took more pictures, Nick grabbed the print powder. (Red, of course, since black powder wouldn't show up very well on the black metal surface of the box. _Oh, Lord_, he thought. _I am never gonna be able to abide the color pink again_.)

The Red Creeper showed up at least a dozen good, clear prints on the box's sides and bottom and, once they were lifted and catalogued, the three stood regarding the mysterious container.

"I think the top is meant to be pried off," Grissom said finally. "Here," he indicated the uppermost edges, "There are gouges in the metal where they've opened it before." Grabbing a thin metal pry bar, he probed gently around the top edge near the scratch marks until he found the gap the box's owner had used, stuck the bar in, and levered it down.

With the pop of a tight seal being broken, the lid came off and the three looked in wonder at the largest stash of what looked like heroin any of them had ever seen in one place. The box was packed with small, clear baggies full of white powder, each one sealed tight.

On closer inspection, Nick noticed that to each bag was affixed a small white label listing the weight and - oddest of all - the price. He laughed. "That Pinky, man. He's one anal, organized dude," he said in wonder.

"Yeah, well. He can organize the laundry room in prison," Grissom said.

"Just because he's organized doesn't mean he isn't a vile human being," Sara said forcefully. "And I'm not just talking about his decorating sense. That much dope could do a lot of damage."

Nick sighed. "I just wish we'd started under the car instead of inside." He put the lid back on the box and picked it up, preparing to take it to the Trace lab. They suspected the bags contained heroin, but they still needed them tested. "Would've saved us a whole lot of work," he continued. He glanced at Sara accusingly. "Whose idea was it to start from the inside out again?"

"It was a mutual decision," Sara shot back, unwilling to shoulder all of the blame for the time they had wasted taking apart the car's interior.

"Ahhh, right." Nick turned and headed out of the garage, leaving Grissom and Sara grinning at each other. Nick was across the large open space and almost to the exit when he remembered he had forgotten to clock in before beginning work on the SUV. Grissom would take care of it for him. _Wouldn't he?_ Nick suddenly wasn't so sure.

Turning, Nick glanced back at the two still standing in the garage--and paused, wondering. Grissom and Sara hadn't moved; they were still standing where he had left them. There was nothing blatant about the way they stared at each other. They weren't touching. And yet . . . was it Nick's imagination, or did it seem as if Grissom was standing just a little **too** close to Sara?

As Grissom and Sara talked, too softly for Nick to overhear, it occurred to him that it had been a while since he had felt the tension that usually followed the two of them around like an invisible cloud. A long while. In fact, he had trouble remembering the last time they had sniped at one another. _Was it last year? Year before that?_ he mused. _Let's see. That Welcome Home party they threw when I got out of the hospital, year before last, they got into that stupid argument about butter cream versus whipped cream frosting. Grissom was condescending and Sara had left early. But since then. . .?_

Now, watching them from across the garage, Nick was struck by just how comfortable they seemed with each other. Why had he not noticed it before? The air around them seemed filled with a soft hum he could only identify as a decidedly sexual undercurrent. _They aren't. . . Are they. . .? _He cut off the train of thought before it reached its inevitable conclusion.

Grissom and Sara seemed unaware they were being watched. Suddenly, Sara smirked and laughed, and walked toward the back wall of the garage. Grissom watched her go, his eyes full of laughter and longing and lust. While Grissom watched Sara, Nick watched Grissom. _Naw, they wouldn't_, Nick thought. _Grissom wouldn't. He never even let us come over to his house except that time four years ago. Said it made him uncomfortable having people over. There's just no way._

Sara grabbed her bottle of water from the bench against the far wall and headed back toward Grissom. The two were still smiling and chatting easily, still too quietly for Nick to hear what was said. As Sara reached Grissom's side, she stopped and said something that made him laugh.

Nick decided he'd probably imagined that look he saw in Grissom's eyes. They were all aware that Sara and Grissom had little crushes on each other, but Grissom was such a cold fish, Nick had trouble with the thought of him showing that much emotion to **anyone**, least of all Sara. Figuring it would probably be a good idea to approach Grissom some other time about the lapse in procedure, Nick turned once again to leave. The heavy box he was carrying was beginning to make his arms and hands ache.

Nick headed back to the garage doors and stepped through. _At least they're getting along better these days_, he thought to himself. _Less tension. Maybe, someday, they can get it together enough to . . . awww, who am I kidding? _And he was gone, the automatic doors sliding closed with a soft hiss behind him.

Grissom looked at Sara and smirked. Sara smiled back, moving closer until there was no mistaking it, she actually **was** standing much too close, invading his personal space. Grissom spared a glance at the closed doors then snaked one hand around to place it firmly on her ass, pulling her close.

Leaning in, Grissom ran his lips lightly along her cheek to her ear and whispered, urgently, "I thought he'd never leave. . .!"

The End


	3. Catherine

**Disclaimer: I didn't create CSI. I don't own CSI. I have not profited in any way from CSI. (Except emotionally; it makes me happy.)**

A/N: Before the events of the last few episodes of season 7, I've always thought the rest of the team kinda, sorta suspected the GSR. They had to have seen things, picked up subtle clues here and there. How might each of the different team members have reacted to those clues they picked up along the way?

**Suspicious Minds:**

CATHERINE

**A Car Just Like Sara's** **-**

Catherine Willows contemplated the traffic stretched ahead of her in the left turn lane and silently cursed Gil Grissom. Again. She considered Grissom to be one of her oldest friends but on days like today she questioned that assumption. She had known him longer than anyone else at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, true, but were they really friends?

She felt she knew him as well as he allowed anyone to know him; she could predict how he would react in most situations. She understood his solitary nature and forgave him his social awkwardness. _I mean, really_, she thought affectionately, _who else would put up with him but me_? The memory of Grissom at last years staff Christmas party made her smile. It had been a simple affair: refreshments and decorations in the break room, Christmas carols on the CD player. Grissom had made an appearance and spent the entire time standing in the corner, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else, until Catherine had "rescued" him and told him it would be all right if he went home early. (Truthfully, everyone had had more fun without him there anyway. Well, everyone but Sara, who had also left early. Couple of social misfits.)

Grissom functioned better in small groups with little-to-no interference and nobody understood that better than Catherine, who had watched him struggle with office politics, mandatory meetings and "incompetent" bureaucrats for years. He knew his job better than anyone on the planet but he just couldn't seem to deal very well with people who weren't part of his "inner circle."

After Nick's ordeal, Grissom had demanded that his "guys" be reunited. The sheriff - and Conrad Ecklie - had been in no position to argue. Grissom and Catherine, Warrick, Nick, Sara and Greg, combined, had elevated the Las Vegas Crime Lab to the number one position in the country. The lab's reputation had suffered when Ecklie, in a childish fit of pique, had split them up and rearranged the lab personnel. Catherine had gotten a promotion, all right; it just wasn't one that did her much good. She'd wanted to be in charge of the day shift so she could spend her non-working hours with her daughter. What she'd gotten had been swing shift; working afternoons and evenings had been worse than working graveyard, since she was gone during Lindsay's few waking, non-school hours. _Conrad Ecklie is such an ass_.

The Sheriff had given in to Grissom's demand and Ecklie had had to stuff any objections he might have had up his ... (HONK) "Hey! You see those yellow lines? They're there for a reason!" Catherine hollered out the window of her SUV at the rented van attempting to pass her on the painted center island. "Tourists," she muttered with contempt.

She reached the light - finally! - and made her left turn, quickly speeding up, relieved to be on her way again. It was nearing ten a.m. and she was anxious to get home and get some sleep so she could spend time with Lindsay before going back to work at midnight. Catherine didn't live all that far from Grissom but it was the thought that he was so blissfully unaware of the inconvenience he was causing her that grated on her nerves.

Putting the team back together had meant that Catherine was no longer a shift supervisor but she hadn't been willing to give up the extra money without a fight, so they had compromised: she was Assistant Supervisor and along with more money came most of the paperwork. Grissom hated wasting time shuffling paper around so those in the upper echelon, who wanted to keep their highly-prized entomologist happy, had shifted most of it to Catherine. _Lucky me_, she thought. Really, though, Catherine didn't mind it that much. Along with the much-needed raise there was the ego boost that came with the knowledge that the sheriff trusted her. Also, there was the even bigger thrill of being "in the know." Performance reviews, pay increases, solve rates, requests for personal time off - and the reasons for same - complaints and warnings, Catherine was privy to it all, about every member of the Las Vegas Crime Lab not just the graveyard shift. It was actually pretty sweet.

Except at times like this, when she was expected to turn in the personnel evaluations before midnight. Grissom had taken the files home with him to work on some useless efficiency analysis the Feds had asked for. _Let's see_, she mused. _Ten minutes to get the files, another fifteen to get home if I take the back way and avoid the boulevard . . ._

She pulled into the parking lot of Grissom's townhouse and spotted a guest space near his front door. _Lucky me, indeed_. With satisfaction, she noticed Grissom's little Mercedes parked in a covered space alongside the walkway. Great, he was home. This shouldn't take any time at all. Especially if she waited until shift started tonight to give him the verbal ass-kicking he so richly deserved. Catherine parked haphazardly and jumped out, heading for Grissom's front door. On the way up the stairs, she caught sight of a silver Prius parked in the spot next to Grissom's.

_Wow_, she thought. _That guy has a Prius exactly like Sara's_. Supplies of the little hybrids must have finally exceeded demand because she was starting to see them everywhere these days. No more waiting lists, what did that tell you? She had even seen a commercial for one recently. _I must remember to tell Sara I saw a hybrid just like hers at Grissom's house. She'll get such a kick out of the fact that they're becoming so popular. She's so concerned about Global Warming . . ._

Catherine rapped briskly - and loudly - on Grissom's door. Then rang the bell just for the hell of it and waited impatiently, tapping her foot. There was a muffled "I'm coming" from inside the house, a long pause, and the door opened, revealing Grissom, wearing pajama bottoms, a tee shirt, and a disgruntled expression.

"Catherine. What is it?" he asked, blinking at the bright light flooding the dim interior of his house. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Except you took the files home. The personnel files. I'm supposed to finish the evaluations so we can get our cost of living--"

Grissom cut her off with a wave of his hand and a muttered apology. "Sorry, Cath. I totally forgot those were due tonight. Wait a minute," and he shut the door in her face.

"Hullo! Grissom? Aren't you going to invite me in?" she shouted at the closed door. _Okay, there's socially inept - and then there's just plain rude! _she thought, not for the first time.

Just as she was about to beat on the door again it opened and Grissom thrust a small stack of files into her arms. "Here you go. Sorry you had to make an extra trip. Just remember I need those back so I can finish my analysis for the Feds." He leaned, relaxed, with one hand resting on the half-open door, watching her with a polite smile on his face.

"Look, I know you don't like company, especially the unexpected kind, but this is..." She paused, at a loss. She wasn't exactly sure what this was. "... even for you," she finished, totally exasperated.

"It won't happen again. I've had a lot on my mind, with the trip to Massachusetts and everything. I really am sorry." He smiled dismissively and stepped back, closing the door in the process. "See you tonight, Cath." And Catherine was left staring at a closed door once again.

_That guy needs to get laid_, Catherine thought with some disgust, as she turned to go...

**Lunch For My Guys -**

It was two a.m. and Catherine was hungry. She had just arrived back at the lab after a grueling seven hours at the home of Mr. and Mrs. David Hillburton and their three dogs. _Well, three dead dogs_, she amended sadly. Someone had broken in, burgled the place and, in the process, killed all three dogs. Nick had been more upset than the homeowners at the sight of the three Labradors (one black and two yellow) lying in the entryway of the up-scale house. It had been a long night and now Catherine was on the prowl.

_There must be something to eat around here_, she thought, heading for the lab's break room. The only person in the room was Grissom, who was standing near the counter lost in thought, an empty coffee mug in his hand. She knew damn well that he knew how to operate the industrial Farmer Brothers coffee machine. _If he thinks I'm going to make a fresh pot he's got another think coming_, she fumed.

"Grissom?" She moved to stand in front of him, trying to get his attention. "Is there anything to eat around here?"

Grissom blinked, finally noticing her. "I brought back Ming Chow's. I was on my way back from the Luxor and driving right past so I thought I'd bring back lunch for the guys."

"Woo hoo! Ming Chow's," Catherine whooped in delight. She glanced around the small room for Chinese take-out bags and, when she didn't spot any, stuck her head in the small refrigerator. "Uh... Grissom?" she pulled her head out and regarded him curiously. "There's only one container in there and it has Sara's name on it."

Grissom turned ever so slightly pink. "Yes. Well. I got into a conversation with the owner about the proper temperature for his steam tables and one thing led to another and... I was only able to get Sara's salad." His blush deepened. "I forgot the rest."

"But that's an Asian Explosion Chicken Salad container," she protested. "You remembered Sara doesn't eat meat, right?"

Grissom regarded her with contempt. "Of course. I'm not senile, Catherine."

"Maybe not. But you forgot the food for--"

"Do you know the kinds of things that grow in food that isn't stored at the correct temperature?" Grissom interrupted her indignantly. "I just happened to order the salad first--" Catherine opened her mouth to object, "They'll substitute grilled tofu for the chicken, Catherine. I am aware Sara doesn't eat meat. I'm not a complete idiot." With a pointed look, Grissom turned and walked out of the room, taking the still-empty mug with him.

"You may not be a complete idiot," she shouted after him, "but is talking about steam tables so fascinating that you forgot to get food for me or Nick or Warrick?!" With a glance at his retreating back, she moved to the refrigerator, opened it up and looked at the salad with longing. _But am I hungry enough to eat salad laced with tofu_? she wondered.

Grissom's voice echoed back along the corridor (even though she was pretty sure he couldn't see her) "And don't touch Sara's salad!"

Catherine closed the refrigerator guiltily. "Are you SURE you aren't in the early stages of Alzheimer's?!!" she called back before heading out the door. Somebody, somewhere in this lab, had to have something to eat. Maybe she'd try Judy's desk...

**Another Brunette -**

_The food's good but the company stinks_, Catherine thought, glancing around the dim restaurant. She had been reading rave reviews of the new four-star steakhouse at the Bellagio for months so when Adam had asked her out, she'd figured Why not?

_Why not?_ she thought. _Why the hell not?? Because I forgot that Adam is the most boring human being on the planet, that's why not! _She toyed with the bits of steak and asparagus left on her plate, wondering just how low she was willing to sink for an excellent meal and male company. Adam was handsome, granted, but he had a tendency to talk - at great, agonizing, booorrring length - about his latest stock acquisitions or his retirement portfolio. Catherine smiled politely and made all the appropriate noises, but she wasn't really listening.

What she was doing was looking around the restaurant with interest. It really was a nice place. Elegant, especially for a steakhouse. Good crystal and china and antique silver flatware and a really excellent wine selection. (Even if old Adam had had to make a big production out of choosing just the right one to go with their meal.) And the steak was to die for, thick and juicy and crusted with blackened bleu cheese and tiny capers.

The restaurant was also crowded, fairly noisy and dark. Like many Las Vegas hotel dining rooms, it had no real windows, just fake windows with fake scenes showing the fake French countryside "outside." _Can't have the patrons noticing the passing of time, now can we_, she thought, amused. There were booths along the left side of the restaurant and Catherine wished she was sitting there instead of the small table in the middle of the room they had been given.

The booths were secluded and looked comfortable, plush and high-backed. Suddenly, Catherine squinted at the last booth on the far back wall. Was that Gil Grissom sitting there? Dressed in a dark suit? Smiling? She looked closer. Why yes, it was most definitely her very own co-supervisor and oldest friend. The beard he had brought back from his sabbatical at Williams College didn't look half bad next to the crisp white shirt and dark tie. And the relaxed, sexy smile looked even better on him. Since she saw him nearly every day, Catherine tended to forget just how good-looking Grissom could be. When he bothered.

Giving her date a distracted "Mmm hmm," Catherine tried to get a better look at Grissom's companion. All she could see of the woman (she was pretty sure it was a woman) was dark hair and a dark dress and white shoulders and an expanse of smooth white back. Grissom and his date (Catherine had to suppress a giggle at the thought of Grissom on an actual date) talked easily, taking sips of wine and bites of food in between sentences.

Cath and Nick had speculated that Grissom might have found himself a lady friend. The shaved face, weight loss, and uncharacteristic days off all indicated that Grissom must have found himself a life outside the lab. It was satisfying to see their suspicions confirmed. _Grissom has himself a girlfriend._ Catherine couldn't help smiling, delighted at the thought of her shy friend asking someone out.

Suddenly, Catherine thought of Sara and the situation didn't seem quite so amusing any more. Sara had always had a crush on Grissom. Everyone knew it. Cath just wasn't sure if Sara realized the hopelessness of her situation. Maybe she was over it. Come to think of it, Catherine couldn't remember the last time Grissom and Sara had openly flirted with each other. In the beginning, it was an everyday occurrence. Later, during the dark times, the two had been unable to share the same space without sniping at each other, making everyone else miserable in the process. Lately, though, they had seemed to be getting along much better. _Maybe they each have somebody to release all that sexual tension with._

Sara had to know that Grissom had a girlfriend. _Didn't she_? Catherine had even wondered, lately, if Sara didn't have somebody of her own. Though she never seemed to try very hard, Sara had started coming in to work looking nicer than she usually did. As if she had spent time that day picking out her wardrobe; as if she had taken extra care with her hair and make-up. (Such as it was.) _As if she had a date to look forward to after work_, Catherine mused. While she'd never be in Catherine's league, Sara did have a certain... something. Catherine had noticed male eyes following her as she poked around crime scenes in her tank tops, tight jeans encasing long, long legs. _If only she'd let me, I could do such a makeover on her_, Catherine thought, all the while acknowledging that it would never happen. Sara was who she was and even Catherine had come to terms with that sad fact. Sara was a swan stuck - most days - in a duckling's body.

Grissom's companion, on the other hand, was most definitely a swan in a swan's body. Catherine could only glimpse the woman from the back, tucked away as she was in the dim recesses of the back corner, but she was definitely tall and slender, with a long neck. Long, dark, slightly wavy hair, self-contained manner. Her movements were elegant; she didn't wave her utensils around or laugh too loud or gulp her wine or talk with her mouth full.

Suddenly, the woman used her right hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear in a move that was reminiscent of something Sara often did. _Oh, my God_, Catherine suddenly realized. _Grissom's dating a woman who reminds him of Sara._ _Oh, now that's just sad._

Catherine noticed, with a touch of embarrassment, that her own date had stopped talking at last and was handing their waiter their check and a pen. "Okay then," she said, smiling encouragingly. Rising, Adam gently pulled her chair out while Catherine stood and collected her shawl and purse. Taking his arm, the two made their way between the tables and out toward the brightly lit mall.

Catherine spared one last glance at Grissom, who was staring intently into the eyes of his dinner companion in their secluded booth. _Maybe it isn't too late, _she thought regretfully._ If I could get Sara to agree to let me do her hair and make-up just once..._

**Oversharing -**

"What is she like?" Sara asked, a bit too casually, her curiosity overcoming her hesitancy. She didn't really want to know about "Lady" Heather Kessler but... she had to admit she was curious. Grissom had mentioned her, in passing, as someone he had met during the course of several investigations; someone he considered an "old friend." But while Sara knew a bit about her profession, none of the information she had had come directly from Grissom and she was intrigued, in spite of herself.

"Beautiful," Catherine answered without hesitation. "Smart, intense." Cath glanced at Sara, gauging her reaction, "Charming. The only woman I've ever seen rattle Grissom." Catherine felt bad - sort of - giving Sara information about Grissom's old flame in such a coldly calculated way but... _It's for her own good_, she thought. _If she hasn't moved on by now, it's about damn time she did._ Catherine was pretty sure Sara no longer had the hots for their boss but just in case, it wouldn't hurt to hammer home the point that Grissom had secrets; a love life that didn't include Sara

Sara glanced up from the floor where she was squatting, uncomfortable with the necessity of biting her tongue to keep from spilling secrets Grissom would most definitely not want Catherine to know. _Oh, yeah?_ she thought. _Rattled? I'll give you a rattled and raise you a screaming-in-ecstasy! _If Catherine only knew...

Catherine went on, oblivious to Sara's discomfort, "I mean he kinda liked that forensic anthropologist. Terry Miller. Remember her?"

"Yeah," Sara shot back. Grissom had told Sara that he had only been mildly interested in Terry Miller but that it hadn't gone anywhere once he realized she was unable to deal with his job. There was no reason to pass that private information on to Catherine, though. Still, Sara kept her reply terse, hoping to signal to Catherine that she really didn't want to go down this road.

Go down it, though, Catherine did. Sara continued to process the room, snapping pictures and searching through debris, while Catherine continued to rattle on, "But she wasn't enough of a challenge for him. Heather, on the other hand... uninhibited AND can beat him at mental chess?" This last caused Sara to pause and lift an eyebrow, remembering the last game of chess she and Grissom had started. They'd never finished it, ending up in the bedroom before completing a dozen moves. "They had chemistry," Catherine went on. "And he is a scientist. I have no proof, and I know he'd never tell me, but I'm certain they spent the night together. Wonder which one wore the chaps?"

Sara almost choked at the outrageous comment. She didn't have to wonder, she knew. And chaps were definitely NOT a part of the process. To cover her near-slip, she tried to bring the conversation back onto solid, professional ground. "Lots of (ahem) coins and toothpicks. They don't sweep under here."

"I mean more power to him, really, to find somebody outside of work 'cuz, you start fishing from the company pier and..." Catherine laughingly continued "... asking for trouble."

Desperate now, Sara tried to get back some semblance of professionalism. "I got a shot glass. Looks like there's some lipstick around the rim."

"My fantasy does not include costumes," Catherine confessed. Sara glared at her, willing her to shut up. Catherine ignored the silent plea. "Or pain," she went on relentlessly. "And certainly not sawdust." Looking down, Catherine noticed some of the offending sawdust clinging to her tailored pant leg and blithely slapped it away. She looked meaningfully at Sara, "You?"

Sara ignored the question, staring straight ahead. She was not about to admit that her fantasies also did not include costumes or sawdust. A naked Grissom, willing to do whatever she asked of him, was enough for her and always had been. Thinking about their secret sex life, it all seemed a little boring and prosaic when compared to the exciting novelty of tinkling player pianos and thirty-year-old Scotch, heaving corseted bosoms and shoot-outs at the OK Corral. Still, Sara figured she'd take a quickie in the shower with the man she adored over all this too-elaborate fantasy. _Some people just try too damn hard_, she thought sadly.

Sara shivered at the thought of Grissom in the shower and turned to Catherine, who had - mercifully - fallen silent. "Come on," she said. "I'm done here. Let's get this stuff back to the lab. This place is beginning to depress me."

Catherine gathered her evidence bags and followed Sara out the saloon's swinging doors. _Good,_ she thought, misinterpreting Sara's sudden change of mood. _My work here is done_.

**WHAT Did He Just Say? -**

"This girl holds me responsible for the death of Ernie Dell. I took away the only person she ever loved, so she's gonna do the same thing to me." Catherine gaped at Grissom, open-mouthed. _Did he just admit what I think he just admitted?_ she thought, shocked to the core. Deeply private Grissom, her friend and co-worker, had just said that Sara was the only person he ever loved. Catherine was beyond stunned, not only that he felt that way, but that he would say something so personal out loud.

Catherine thought about all the signs she had witnessed, all pointing to Grissom having a girlfriend. A girlfriend who looked a lot like Sara. _Oh, God_, she thought. _Poor Grissom. He's got it bad._

Catherine watched Grissom march purposely out of the layout room, leaving the rest of the team staring at the empty doorway, the walls, the miniature crime scene; anything to avoid having to stare at each other. _I wonder if Sara has ever suspected that he feels that way._

The End


	4. Brass

**Disclaimer: I didn't create CSI. I don't own CSI. I have not profited in any way from CSI. (Except emotionally; it makes me happy.)**

(A/N: Sorry this took so long but it was difficult to convince Brass to tell me how he found out about the GSR. The tight-lipped SOB!)

Suspicious Minds:

BRASS

"Once upon a time, there was a smart, handsome, tough-as-nails police captain named... Hmm... Let's call him--"

"Jim? What are you doing?"

Jim Brass looked over at Gil Grissom, who was regarding him over the brim of a large Styrofoam container of something that had optimistically been called coffee. (It was hot. And it was black. But that's where the similarity ended.) "I'm telling you a story."

"Why?"

"Why not?" Grissom frowned at the non-answer, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall behind the bench he was sitting on. "Look, my friend," Brass continued patiently. "You need some time to cool off. Natalie needs some time to calm down. And we need to wait for the department shrink before we can proceed. So I'm telling you a story." Brass watched his friend sympathetically, noting the anger and despair that radiated off him in waves that seemed to shimmer like a heat mirage. "It's a real good story, I promise."

Grissom opened his eyes and smiled wanly, giving at least implicit permission for Brass to continue. "So, anyway. Where was I? Oh, yeah. This captain. Jim, we'll call him. So, he's a clever fellow, this Jim. Sees all, never misses a trick, you get the picture. Well, he has this old friend, we'll call him--"

"Gil?" Grissom guessed, straight faced.

"No, smarty-pants. His name is... uh... Dill. Short for Dillon. So this Dill is a real good friend of Jim's. They don't really hang out but they each know they got the other's back, if you know what I mean. Known each other a long time. Worked together just as long. Jim doesn't have many close friends. No family to speak of but a daughter he rarely sees and, frankly, isn't all that proud of."

"She's a good kid, Jim. Underneath all the... other stuff," Grissom interjected half-heartedly.

"Hey. Who's telling this story, me or you?" When Grissom shook his head and closed his eyes once again, Brass continued. "This captain, see, he's kind of hard to get to know. He's got his work and not much else, but he's got these friends, see, and he'd do anything for them. Anything. Dill and... umm... Pat and Marlon and Dick, they're more than friends. They're family to him."

Grissom smiled without opening his eyes, but it was at least a real smile this time. "I'm sure they feel the same way about... him."

"Whatever. The only problem is, Dill is hard to get to know, too. He's a really private guy. I mean REALLY private. Pathologically private. Wouldn't give his own mother his home address, private. Never invites anyone to his house, private. Rarely goes out or..."

"Okay. I get it. Dill's really private."

"So you understand how hard it is to get to know Dill. It takes some doing. And Jim's been working at it a long time."

"Because he and Dill have been friends for a long time." Grissom was starting to get into the spirit of the tale. He still leaned against the wall, but he was relaxed now rather than hunched in defeat.

"Yeah. A really long time. And all they have is their work and each other and the weird-ass family. So, anyway, Jim notices things. He used to be the supervisor at the place where Dill and the rest of the guys work. Did I mention that?"

"No. I don't think you did."

"Well, he was. He can crime-scene investigate with the best of them. Well, not as good as Dill, of course..."

"Of course."

"But he can hold his own. And, like I said, he notices things. Now, much as Jim admires Dill, Jim has always thought Dill was a little bit sad. A little bit lonely. Aww hell who are we kidding, a LOT lonely. Dill can be charming and friendly when he wants to but, left to his own devices, Dill would rather be alone with his... uh... fish. Yeah, fish. He studies fish. I don't know if I mentioned that, either."

"Fish, huh?" Grissom took a sip of his coffee and regarded Brass indulgently. "Is he some kind of expert or something?"

"Oh, man. Is he ever! Knows everything there is to know about fish. People call him from all over the country, begging for his expertise. He has his pick of places he can work but he chooses to work in Las... uh... Cruces. New Mexico."

"Nice place," Grissom remarked. He had once mentioned to Brass that New Mexico (Taos, not Las Cruces) was someplace he might consider living, if he ever left Vegas. Funny, Brass remembering that oh-so-casual remark.

"Is it ever. Gorgeous place." Brass paused to sip his own coffee and searched Grissom's face for traces of the rage that had prompted the need for the "story" in the first place. He was relieved to see that Grissom seemed to have left his frustration in the interrogation room with Natalie Davis. "Las Cruces is a great place but it's chock full o' crime. Keeps Jim and Dill and the rest of the gang hopping. In fact, they're so busy that Dill decides they need extra help, so he calls his good friend Tara to come join his team in Las Cruces."

Grissom looked up sharply. If Brass was going to bring Sara into the tale, Grissom would be reminded of why they were there and his new-found calm would go out the window. Brass pretended he hadn't noticed the sudden tension. "This Tara, she's a real firecracker, she is. Lovely, sweet, but tough, too. Smart as anything. Maybe just as smart as Dill."

Grissom snorted and buried his face in the cup of horrid coffee, hiding the tiny smile.

"Don't get me wrong, she's no fish expert or anything, but she's got game. It takes her a while, but she manages to fit in real well. Becomes part of the family. But, see, the really funny thing is, she's just as private and just as sad and lonely as Dill. Pretty soon, Jim realizes that Dill and Tara are as alike as two peas in a pod."

Grissom leaned forward and set the Styrofoam cup on the floor between his feet. He placed his forearms on his thighs and rested his head in his palms, the better to hide his face. He didn't like the sudden turn the "story" had taken. Not one bit.

"Hey. Don't worry. I told you the story has a real good ending."

"No, you didn't." Grissom looked up briefly. "You can't."

"Sure I can. It's my story," Brass replied cheerfully. He wasn't just saying that to reassure Grissom, either. He firmly believed that the only way this particular story could end was happily. Anything else simply wasn't possible, in his world. "And, you know, it isn't long before Jim realizes something else."

"What?"

"That Dill has a little bit of a crush on Tara. And Tara has a little bit of a crush on Dill. Oh, nobody else seems to pay it any mind, but Jim does. Dill and Tara, they fight like cats and dogs and then they flirt with each other and then they ignore each other but, underneath it all is this sort of... magnetic attraction between them. Jim thinks it's because they're so private and so lonely that the only other person Dill could ever imagine allowing into that loneliness is Tara. And, you know, vice versa."

Grissom lifted his head and stared at the corridor's opposite wall, considering Brass's words. He had to admit, Brass had been right on so far. Taking his own sweet and roundabout time, but right on. "So, what happened? In the story."

"Well, Jim has his suspicions, see, about how Dill and Tara really feel about each other, but he doesn't think they'll ever get up the nerve to do anything about it. He's watching them, though. Got the eagle eye on 'em. Just out of curiosity, you understand. Not like stalking or perverted or anything."

"I wouldn't think so."

"Damn straight. So, Jim starts to notice other things. Little things. Things the other so-called investigators don't. Like, how the air around them changes when Dill and Tara get near each other. Or how Dill watches Tara like a hawk whenever she's around any other guy. Or how Tara fumes just a little when Dill is friendly toward any other woman. Or how Dill seems to favor Tara, paying attention to her, giving her the best--"

"Hey!" Grissom interrupted, indignant. "I never--"

"I'm just telling a story here, pal. Any resemblance to actual living people is purely coincidental."

"But--"

"Will you let me tell it my way? Please? It's fiction, Gil. I'm adding a little bit of drama to spice things up."

"Seems to me the story's spicy enough without added drama," Grissom muttered.

"So... where was I?"

"You were CLAIMING... uh... Dill was playing favorites with--"

"Right. So, Jim starts noticing that Dill and Tara are getting downright chummy with each other. They're hardly fighting. They're working together more often and they're communicating on some sub-level where they're finishing each other's thoughts and anticipating each other's needs." Brass paused, seemingly lost in thought. "It's kind of freaking him out, actually," he said quietly. Suddenly, he remembered that he had an audience and continued, "They're even back to flirting a little bit and Jim is starting to wonder what's changed."

Grissom rolled his eyes as Brass continually referred to himself in the third person; they both knew who he was really talking about. Grissom bit his tongue, though, and refrained from making any more smart comments. He found himself suddenly very interested to find out just how, exactly, Brass had had his suspicions confirmed. He and Sara had thought they were being so careful!

"Then, one day, a tragedy nearly rips the family apart. Rick--"

"Dick," Grissom corrected.

"Right. Dick, the little brother, is kidnapped and buried alive in a glass coffin in a hole in the ground. Now, don't worry, 'cuz this part of the story also has a happy ending. The family work like dogs, like a well-oiled machine, and get little Dick back, safe and sound."

Grissom hung his head even lower between his knees, as if he thought he might faint. "That's good," he said on a soft sigh.

"You betcherass! Nobody messes with the family. Remember that. And after the family is reunited, Jim notices that Dill and Tara have stopped flirting with each other. And they're working less overtime and taking their days off instead of bitching about 'em. Not together, of course, but a guy would have to be blind not to notice the changes."

Grissom smiled faintly at the memories that came flooding back at Jim's words. Sara, offering herself so hesitantly, so sweetly; their first kiss; their first frantic coupling, hard and fast and awkward, up against the front door of Sara's apartment; the many times in the two years since then, most of them while they were comfortably entwined on a bed, thank God. He had been surprised to discover just how perfectly they fit together. There had been so many moments; tender moments; moments of quiet joy and moments filled with misunderstanding and compromise and hurt and hard, hard work uniting two private, solitary lives into one. Such gloriously hard work! And for what?

Brass continued, unaware of the effect his story was having (but hoping for it). "They aren't fighting or anything. They just aren't out and out flirty any more. And you know something? Jim thinks that's even more suspicious than the fighting. Jim figures something's definitely up, you know? So he starts watching them even more closely. Searching for clues. And lo and behold, one night, he catches them."

Grissom looked up at this, quickly swiping at his eyes as he did so. "Catches them?" he asked. "Doing what?"

"Nothing naughty or anything, though that might have been interesting. No. Jim gets called to a crime scene where some girls got murdered and both Dill and Tara are there, too. Everybody's there. Six showgirls dead. Young, beautiful, full of life, sweet girls. Raped and murdered in their own home. Slaughtered more like, by some animal with a black void where his conscience oughta be..." Brass's voice trailed off as he tried to get himself under control. The case still bothered him. He still dreamed about them, those bright, beautiful young women and the terror they must have felt as they died, one by one.

"Jim?" Grissom put out his hand and lightly touched Brass's knee where it rested on the bench next to him. "You okay?"

"Me? I'm fine. That sort of thing just rolls off MY back, ya know? But the case bothers Dill a lot. And Tara. Bothers Tara especially. She actually held the hand of one of the girls as she died. Takes the team about two days but they get the bastard that did it. And that same night, they all go to Martine's to "celebrate," if you can call it that. More like trying to drink away those images in their heads, you ask me. One by one, everybody calls it a night, heads on home and it's just Jim and Dill and Tara and then they all decide to leave, too. They say their goodnights in front of the bar and Dill announces he's gonna walk Tara to her car, which is parked in the lot behind the place. Jim? He's got a PD license plate, he can park right in front in the red zone if he wants to. And on a night like that, he wants to. So he gets in his car and makes a right at the corner and heads on around the block to cruise past the parking lot, just to make sure they're okay. And what does he see?"

Grissom, fascinated in spite of himself (and in spite of the fact that he had actually been there so should've known what was coming) said, "What? What did he see?"

"Why, Dill and Tara, of course. Standing so close you couldn't get a piece of paper in between them. He's got her car door open, the interior light's on, and they're just standing there, leaning into each other, foreheads touching. As he passes, Jim sees Dill run his thumb over Tara's cheek like she musta been crying or something, and then Dill puts his fingers on her chin and leans in and just lays one on her. Full on the mouth." Brass gave Grissom a broad smile and waved both hands in a flourish as if to say "Ta dah!" and continued, "So, now Jim knows for sure. And he's glad, see. Glad that his friends, they're gonna be okay. He understands that that's what's changed and that's why they're not so sad any more. They have each other." Brass watched Grissom for a moment, gauging the effect of the story. "See? I told you there was a happy ending."

"That was private," Grissom muttered, feeling embarrassed and exposed.

"That," Brass replied, "was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

"How, exactly, is that the end of the story?" Grissom wondered sadly.

"Well, it's the end of MY story, I didn't say it was the end of theirs." Brass stood up and moved to stand in front of Grissom, watching for a moment while Grissom struggled to come to terms with the fact that someone actually knew he and Sara HAD a story. It was a relief, Grissom finally decided, to know that it was the fact that Brass had actually been looking for subtle clues that had given them away. And not that they had been careless. He could be himself with Brass, and not have to keep up the appearance of a cool, analytical detachment he was far from feeling at the moment. He was angry and frightened and desperate and the effort it took to hide all that was becoming too much for him.

"How does theirs end?" Grissom asked quietly, dreading the answer.

Jim Brass tugged at the knees of his slacks and squatted down in front of his oldest and closest friend. Looking him square in the eye, he said with a certainty he found he didn't need to fake, "Happily ever after, of course, like most great stories."

With a smile and a grunt, Brass stood up. "Now. Let's go find us some bleach and get to work!" and he started off down the corridor toward the interrogation room where Natalie Davis waited. When he realized that he was headed down the corridor alone, Brass looked back to see that Grissom hadn't moved from his spot on the bench.

Gris smiled and lifted his right hand, jangling the handcuff chaining him to the arm of the bench. "Could you uncuff me first?"

"Oh. Right." Brass reached into his pocket for the key. "Sorry."

The End


End file.
